


violent waltz

by PerksOfImmortality (akahomie)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Canon Era, Character Study, F/M, Falling In Love, Immortal Merlin (Merlin), Introspection, M/M, Pining, Romance, dubiously canon compliant, this is mostly merthur to be honest, vague spoilers for... pretty much everything, who is this "Canon" bitch you speak of? I don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 04:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21265232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akahomie/pseuds/PerksOfImmortality
Summary: Five times Merlin falls in love, and one time he rediscovers it.





	violent waltz

_ **i. Will** _

In small villages, there was no such thing as anonymity, of blending in, when you were a person who could levitate jars before you could talk and fell trees with a thought before you could learn how to climb them. Merlin was not like anybody else he knew for there was not a single person he had ever met who could do any of the same things he could. He was different, and in a small village where he got nothing but judgmental stares and kept distances, Merlin would soon discover that different was _bad_. Different was _weird_. Different made him a _freak_.

But not to Will.

Will never looked at him as if he were a monster, or an unsettling enigma best left avoided. Will looked at Merlin with curiosity, with open fascination, with wonder and delight—and still regarded him in the exact same way even with his magic. He told Merlin he had a gift, and did he know what a waste it was not to use it? People used their talents to have fun, to help other people, to feel happy—so shouldn't it be so with Merlin's magic also?

He told Merlin it was a part of him, not unlike a birthmark or the color of his hair, and not nearly as strange Anna from across the street's collection of dead beetles. And then Will only laughed and smiled and leaned closer when Merlin had cradled a small flame in both his hands, not a single trace of fear or disgust in his eyes. Will didn't see him as a monster, just as _Merlin_, and that was all he'd ever really wanted.

As young as Merlin was, it was hard _not _to love Will, but it was much harder to leave him.

Alas, he couldn't worry his mother, so he left and (as per Will's own request) did not dare look back—then again after he returned and as Will lay dying, having claimed responsibility for what, in Arthur’s eyes, should’ve been Merlin’s crimes.

_ **ii. Arthur** _

The first time they met, there was little that could’ve forewarned Merlin of what this would all mean to him later down the line. There was no courteous notice letting him know that Arthur would be _it _for him—that all-encompassing love written in poems and sung in songs and remembered in historical epics. No. The moment Merlin met Arthur, his first thought had been: _What a prat._

Before he could realize, Merlin was challenging him... and he had Arthur’s chest pressed against his back, Arthur pinning Merlin’s arms behind him. His breath was hot in Merlin’s ear as he introduced himself, and Merlin’s heart was pounding like a drum, the hint of something electric in the air charging the moment with an unmatched intensity.

He was spoiled of his slow realization not much later, when the Great Dragon just outright told him that, apparently, Arthur was supposed to be his destiny or something ridiculous like that. His first instinct was to fight it, which only ended in one too many violent confrontations.

Arthur would, strangely enough, not send Merlin to the stocks again, only smirk and send him tumbling away. Then, his eyes would sparkle tantalizingly with an emotion Merlin could never place. They kept meeting each other in fights, where they seemed to dance around one another more than anything. It was a dynamic that was, at best, a few days old, and yet it was already so established—feeling ancient and ageless and making some part of Merlin jump up to exclaim, _finally_.

When Lady Helen’s impostor tried to kill the prince in an effort to exact revenge upon Uther, everything changed.

Earlier that same day, Merlin and Arthur were taunting each other, poising for yet another fight. But suddenly, Merlin was greeting Arthur in his chambers with his newly acquired manservant status (“a prestigious position in _the royal household_,” courtesy of the king). Merlin was serving Arthur food and bathing him and trailing after him everywhere.

It threw the both of them immensely off-balance. Merlin couldn’t challenge Arthur the same as before because he was Arthur’s personal servant now. Meanwhile, Arthur couldn’t exactly be seen treating his manservant as one would a rival; they kind of had to be in at least a _semblance _of equal standing for that.

But it wasn’t as if Merlin had always had the best grasp of social protocol. Soon enough, he was breaking past those invisible lines. He did it by provoking Arthur at every turn, bowing but never breaking the prince’s gaze, biting back readily with a retort to each of Arthur’s disparaging remarks, coming up with new insulting nicknames faster than Arthur could come up with new inane chores. Before either of them knew it, they were settling into a new routine.

That’s when the strangest thing happened. Somewhere along the line, all those disparaging remarks and bad nicknames lost the edge of hostility to them, that tang of barely covered up antagonism. Taking its place was this strange sort of companionship Merlin had never really felt with anyone else before.

After his initial thrashing to get away, Arthur seemed to change tact entirely and he latched onto Merlin with all his might instead. It gave Merlin whiplash, for lack of a better word. He’d never before in his life added butterflies to his diet, yet they made a home of his stomach anyway. They taunted him every time Arthur smiled one of those private, lopsided smiles people never see. That smile would make Merlin forget he was a prince, would make the rest of the world disappear because all that mattered in the moment was that Arthur was happy, and everything in Merlin’s world was pretty all right, all things considered.

And that was the clincher, wasn’t it? Arthur occupied a unique spot in Merlin’s life, which Merlin had never before realized was a spot he could ever delight in seeing filled. Arthur spoke ill of Merlin to his face, proud and pompous as he always was in his insults, and yet his words became so defensive and protective when Merlin's back was turned (or at least when Arthur thought it was). That was where it really started.

Or perhaps it had started much earlier, before the two of them made a habit of saving each other's lives, before something in Merlin's chest did an uncontrollable flutter when Arthur proudly declared that Merlin had his absolute trust, before Arthur screamed Merlin's name like he couldn't bear to lose him (and then said as much, much later on). Perhaps it had started since the first time they'd smiled at each other, one in disbelief and wonder that another person could truly see and treat him as an equal, and the other in marveling at rough, beautiful, spitfire regality that plainly demanded attention. It also could have very well started the instant orbs of blue summer skies met those of tempestuous deep seas that flashed with golden lightning.

Regardless, it only grew as time wore on. Merlin passed years by as Arthur’s shadow, arguably as the closest one person could be to him, as the servant who was so very often dismissed as useless and idiotic but who was also so very much more than a servant.

They were together every day from the moment Merlin would wake Arthur up in the mornings until the moment Merlin undressed him to prepare for bed in the evenings. They were beside each other for every triumph and every loss. Daily acts of treason became inconsequential to Merlin, if it meant he could bring Arthur back home safe and sound. Arthur’s once unquestioning loyalty and obedience to his own father positively shook, even when it had for absolutely no one else before, all to honor Merlin’s word against a knight; to risk his life to deliver a vital cure for Merlin’s ailing body; to venture so that he could save Merlin’s terrorized home village; and to lose all regard for his place as Uther’s one and only heir—as Camelot’s crown prince—just because he wouldn’t allow Merlin to die in his place.

For Merlin, it was a love of which he couldn't hope to pinpoint a definite start or end, not exactly. Never exactly. Merlin's love was like a fire. It was alive. It breathed. It flickered low and quiet and barely there some moments, as if the slightest whisper could send it tumbling in the air as embers. It roared high and loud in other moments, as all-powerful and engulfing and overwhelming as his magic felt whenever it surged up from within him during a particularly powerful spell. It flickered with endless chores and misunderstandings and misplaced stubbornness, but it roared with disarming displays of nobility and unexpected feats of courage.

It was a love forged in endless banter, titles and social protocol be damned. It was forged in secrets, both those whispered in the privacy of a quiet night or a noisy battlefield when tomorrow was uncertain, and those that ached ever more to keep with each passing day. It was forged in manhandling and horseplay and happy, carefree faces as they prodded and teased from dawn till dusk. It was forged in hidden smiles and longing looks and stolen caresses when one of them was unconscious or hurt. It was forged in the true and simple way they were always prepared to sacrifice themselves for each other, without question, without hesitation, but not without the prickling annoyance whenever their offers to die for one another got mirrored right back, time and time again.

Merlin knew he could never have Arthur, not really, no matter how much social protocol did beg to be damned. There was something about a future king needing a wife and heirs, and a sorcerer needing to keep his secrets because of some prophecy that needed to be fulfilled—a prophecy that, according to one infuriating dragon, couldn't be compromised via the sorcerer getting beheaded by his beloved prince's magic-hating father.

That indeterminable barrier was one that would not allow for things such as desperate goodbye kisses before diving headfirst into the throes of danger and bravery and all else foolish; tearful bedside vigils and murmured '_I love you_'s into matted locks of hair; tightly clasped hands that wanted nothing but inane concepts like staying and never letting go; swords and armor polished with softly spoken enchantments that were made not of magic but prayers, pleas to '_keep safe, for me_;' and trips into hostile territory wherein one defiant prince certainly could not rescue his servant (much less marry him).

Neither him nor Arthur preferred to speak of love in such terms. Instead, their penchants laid more in acts of devotion that could not be mistaken, but only if one knew, _really _knew where to look. And none but the two of them ever did.

_ **iii. Lancelot** _

There was a lot to be said for remaining cherished because of who you truly were, and in spite of what you claimed to be.

What Merlin felt for Lancelot was like a whirlwind, happening too fast to dwell on or even process. One moment, he thought he'd die an early death at the hands of a gruesome monster. The next, his life was saved by the same man who held his hand in a firm grip as he helped Merlin to his feet. The next still, and he had already fallen after a single touch.

After his bravery in facing down what turned out to be a murderous creature of magic, Lancelot would continue to surprise Merlin with how great and big-hearted a man he could be. And the only thing that would surprise Merlin more was his willingness to do just about anything for a virtual stranger, if only Lancelot were to ask with his low, serious voice and dark, piercing eyes.

Some part of Merlin was aware that he was not quite able to think with his head when around Lancelot. That part prickled at the back of his mind when he flushed at Gwen's redirected compliments after she took Lancelot’s measurements. However, Merlin only realized how far gone he actually was when he was saving Lancelot's life in turn, getting called out for revealing his magic to him, and finding that he didn't much mind Lancelot being one more person who kept this dear, close secret of his—the one that could get him killed.

But then again, before Merlin could dwell on the implications of the things he was feeling, Lancelot was already gone. When they inadvertently met again, though, they only smiled at one another as Merlin secured their escape route, like his magic was a comfortable, well-worn secret between them, which Lancelot would no doubt keep. With a flash of his eyes, Merlin protected those around him for the nth time. He found that he quite liked it that Lancelot was there to regard him as one would a hero, to look at him and _see _all that he did and all that he's ever done, to be known for what he truly was and find something reassuring in those dark, piercing eyes regardless.

Again, they had to part, but when Lancelot waltzed into Merlin's life a third time—this time to be knighted—Merlin discovered with delight that he and Lancelot were able to pick right back up where they'd left off. For once, Lancelot was here to _stay_. They flirted easily one moment, and were fully prepared to give their lives for each other the next. Lancelot excused Merlin’s mysterious magic-related absences by supporting ridiculous alibis Arthur would not have believed otherwise. Merlin invisibly assisted Lancelot during the knights’ training.

In Lancelot’s presence, Merlin was a little bit less unsung with the reassurances reverently whispered as they lay beside each other on cold stone floors or misty forest grounds or small fire-lit huts. It was all so natural and right, and made him feel light and free and appreciated.

Lancelot was his small refuge from the suffocating world of lies and pretenses and concealed sorcery, and Merlin reveled in him, even if or maybe all the more so because a part of him acknowledged that this could never last. Because Lancelot's heart didn't belong to him, not really. It never would, no matter how much Merlin might want it to.

_ **iv. Freya** _

With Freya, it was more than a matter of love. She was a kindred spirit, someone who was capable not only of knowing and even accepting him, but understanding him in the most fundamental of ways. Freya and Merlin: they were both outcasts, both freaks of nature, both possessors of unimaginable powers which controlled them just as much as they controlled those powers. But most importantly, they had been both inescapably, unbearably alone_... _until they found each other.

From the moment Merlin first saw her in that cage, broke her out with a whispered spell, and held her hand as they snuck into a safer place where neither of them could be persecuted simply for being themselves—Merlin thought defiantly: _screw destiny_.

It felt so easy to do the things he did: harbor a fugitive, go behind Arthur’s back, ignore the mysterious murders, and prepare to throw away the life he had so far been able to build for himself in Camelot, no matter how meager. It was complete insanity; he was prepared to forsake it all for Freya’s soft, tentative smiles in the candlelight, for how quickly she became at ease in his presence despite her instincts honed by a lifetime of running and hiding telling her not to trust him, for the way she spoke of strawberries and a shimmering lake and the quiet life for which she longed.

When Merlin kissed her, it was a promise: _you don’t have to be alone any longer_.

He supposed that, in the end, he should’ve known what would happen. The Great Dragon’s voice echoed in his ears, telling him _none of us can choose our destiny, Merlin, and none of us can escape it_—while he watched Freya get shot by Camelot’s knights.

But then the most bewildering thing happened when Merlin brought Freya, clad in one of Morgana’s dresses, to the lake: of all things, she _thanked _Merlin, as if he had not just failed her miserably on everything he had promised. And even if she had sworn to him that she would repay his kindness, that one day he _would _see her again, it did nothing to ease the feeling of his heart being pierced by a hundred swords and spears and crossbow arrows.

He stood before the lake, watching the burning boat cradling the still body of the woman he loved, imagining what kind of life they could have shared together if only Merlin was stronger, quicker, and not duty-bound to a stupid, _stupid _destiny. And he couldn’t help but collapse to his knees, tears a burning wetness flowing unbridled like an endless stream from his sorrow-filled eyes, and scream at the sky: _Why can’t I be allowed to just _have _this?_

_ **v. Gwaine** _

Gwaine entered his life with a bang, throwing Merlin’s thoughts into disarray with the flash of a smile and a flip of his hair. He saved Merlin’s life on their very first meeting, and then had the nerve to look like he belonged in Merlin’s bed, half-nakedly smiling up at him and simply happy to be alive at all.

Merlin first realized that this might be the start of something when Gwaine didn’t even hesitate to fight for Merlin against knights favored by the king—all because Merlin let him know with a loaded glance and a single softly spoken syllable that he didn’t feel safe in said knights’ company. There was something greater than relief seizing Merlin’s chest when Arthur had been able to convince his father to let Gwaine keep his life, some unnamed emotion that terrified and thrilled Merlin all the same.

With Gwaine, the epiphany of Merlin’s feelings crept up on him, like ocean water gathering momentum out of sight until it finally crashed on him as a giant wave, unable to be ignored.

First, Gwaine was this great big box of mysteries, this nomad with a shadowy past and a tab at the Rising Sun as long as a log. Then, he was a noble soul who embodied the ideals of knighthood better than almost anyone else Merlin knew, noble status be damned. Then, he was Merlin’s partner in crime, who looked so happy to see Merlin in the middle of a tavern brawl that he gladly accompanied Merlin on a quest to the bloody Perilous Lands. Then, he was Merlin’s confidante, who listened to his suspicions about betrayals at the castle and who went with him on errands that would seem inane to anybody else, like searching for a supposed traitor’s kidnappers.

Finally, he was Merlin’s comrade, who never batted an eye at Merlin coming with the knights on whatever dangerous errand their king had in store for them that day and who treated Merlin like he belonged with them all, like he was no less a knight than anyone else there.

The doubt that plagued Merlin when he realized his feelings was no small annoyance in his everyday life, a voice at the back of his mind longing for companionship after so many years of nursing a hopeless flame. It screamed at him to _Tell him! Tell him! Tell him! _And Merlin, day in and day out, drew up lists with hundreds of reasons of exactly how bad an idea it was to let his feelings be known, lists he agonized over and recited in his head whenever he so much as entertained the thought of coming clean. Although, he almost wanted to thank the little hedonistic voice in his head when he finally succumbed to it because (and why the _hell _couldn’t he have anticipated this sooner) being with Gwaine was _exhilarating_.

Gwaine made Merlin feel like a virgin, so clumsy and inexperienced in all his fumbling and blushing and uncertainty. But, Merlin supposed, he kind of still _was _a virgin, in a few key ways that mattered. He was a virgin to the act of opening himself up and letting another person in, physically, emotionally, until the space between them whittled down to nothing. He had never before had to contend with the gargantuan task of facing that same person he’d bared so much of himself to the next morning, struggling to hold his gaze, and battling with the crippling insecurity that maybe it was a mistake (maybe he didn’t want Merlin after all). And he was a complete novice at the ability to muster the bravery to do it all over again.

Gwaine picked apart at Merlin’s silences and looks and body language, reading him like a book. Nay, he _wrote _that book himself, cataloging Merlin’s various tells by slowly learning him through observation, through conversation, through touch. Gwaine used that book like a map of constellations to navigate the expansive labyrinth made of the walls Merlin put up around himself to keep others away: his outward cheerfulness, his optimism, his irritation, his secretiveness, and the insurmountable loneliness that lurked just underneath the rest.

Throughout it all, perhaps even throughout Merlin’s whole life, he had never felt as explicitly _loved_. Gwaine looked upon him reverently, like he wasn’t quite sure he could have Merlin all to himself. He touched him softly, memorizing and savoring, like Merlin was someone precious and _his _to protect. The gentleness of it all made Merlin’s heart feel tight, about to burst. He found himself wanting—_craving_ to give as much as he was being given. He craved to have Gwaine understand how he made Merlin feel. And thus he tried his best so that maybe, _maybe_ he could make Gwaine feel the same way. Though Gwaine would only chuckle fondly at Merlin’s enthusiasm and the unpracticed way he expressed it, before Merlin would kiss the smile off his mouth to turn his attention to more pressing matters.

Gwaine knew him. He knew Gwaine. It flattered Merlin, but he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling of his big secret wanting to be told, the same secret three previous flames had known. And though not telling Gwaine hurt Merlin beyond what words could describe, there was a part of him that feared what would happen if he _did _tell Gwaine. The knowledge of Merlin’s magic felt like a curse when three of the four important people who had known either died or disappeared from his life, never to be seen again. Merlin couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to Gwaine, who was here and beautiful and strong and alive.

In his heart of hearts, Merlin knew that Gwaine would accept him for who he was. He wasn’t afraid of the possibility of disgusted reactions or betrayed expressions or sudden rejection. However, he trembled at the mere thought of Gwaine, someone who’d grown to be so dear to him, succumbing to the same fate Merlin’s secret keepers often did.

He would come to regret this decision later, when Gwaine eventually succumbed to a secret keeper’s fate by simple virtue of being a knight who wrestled with mortal dangers as his job description, and without knowing Merlin’s secret at all. In the end, Merlin did find what he was looking for, just like Gwaine had hoped he would. But little did he know that, in return, he lost what he’d had.

_ **vi. Arthur (reprise)** _

Perhaps it took Merlin too many lovers, too many trysts, too many seasonal flings, too many brief infatuations to notice. Or perhaps he had always known, somewhere at the back of his mind, that he would never—_could never_—stop loving Arthur. Because Merlin’s love for him was like a fire. When it flickered low and quiet, a different flame could share space in his heart, and he supposed he could rent out the space in that inconvenient organ toiling tirelessly in his chest, but he could never give it away.

Once, Merlin found himself wanting to do so, wanting to reciprocate what he thought was Arthur giving his own heart away to another, and Merlin swore he could see himself content for years in the arms of someone else. He thought he might be able to give up his all-consuming devotion because of queens and the necessity for them. He thought that maybe he could be selfless, that maybe he could face it all while asking casually, _What do _my _feelings matter?_

But Arthur never made it easy. Oh no, in fact, he made it outright impossible. Throughout it all, Merlin was Arthur’s shadow, arguably the closest one person could be to him, the one servant who was so much more than a servant. He kept Merlin close to the chest, but never ever touching, as his loyal secret keeper and life partner of the most platonic order! It was torture—bitter, bitter torture that Merlin could never manage to feel while in the arms of another even a fraction of what one lingering glance or concerned inquiry or touch on the shoulder from Arthur made him feel.

Merlin’s love was a fire that burned everything to the ground, that seared memories like a brand, hot onto his skin, overpowering and unforgettable. It was painful and intoxicating and wonderful all the same. It was Merlin’s heart, ripped from his chest, that inconvenient organ never having been his to begin with. And oh did it make a convenient scapegoat, his traitorous heart whose sole job was to pump blood through Merlin’s veins but instead completely gave itself away to the biggest clotpole in the Five Kingdoms.

What made it worse was that Arthur had the gall to put years and years worth of Merlin’s worries to rest in a single moment. These were worries that kept him awake at night, crying himself to sleep over the decisions he’d had to make. And Arthur (the terrible, marvelous man that he was) fucking _dared_ to accept Merlin for everything he was right before dying cruelly in his arms.

And it was torture. Bitter, bitter torture that whatever deity hearing his prayers decided to answer Merlin’s absolute dearest wish in all of his life... and then gave him mere _minutes _to savor it. Merlin was furious, and he had nothing and no one to direct his fury towards, except for himself. He could learn to love, but he could never learn to trust. For an unwieldy slice of eternity, truths untold make up his only company, hissed into his years by the ghosts of omission that haunt him at every waking moment.

Like this, centuries passed. The blazing hellfire of Merlin’s fury eventually quieted to a simmering heat. Immortality numbed him like an endless ocean to drown in. Over the course of a thousand years, he learned to forgive himself, and he learned to wait. (Though he was not happy about it. He was never happy about anything.) God or the universe or whoever must have looked down upon him at some point, feeling for him, because in time they granted Merlin the sweetest reward.

One morning, he feels the call in his bones: something ancient and ageless within him waking up, telling him that his time of dormancy has come to an end. And then the tiny, flickering flame in his heart, which he has been nursing for all of that time, _roars_. Hopeful.

There had been something about a future king's need for heirs and a sorcerer's need to keep secrets if he wanted to keep his head, and yet there is a coin with two inseparable sides, a thread of destiny tying two souls together, carrying them through the open skies of time unbound from the quaint perch of a singular lifetime.

This time around, when Merlin reaches into the water to pull out of the lake not a sword but its owner, of all the thousands of possibilities for words that swirl in his mind across every single one of those years alone, not the slightest utterance passes through his lips. But Arthur smiles at him, as if he understands.

Arthur (his king, his destiny, the reason for his existence—oh how is he _real_) tells him calmly: _Love, you never lost me_.

That’s when Merlin realizes he’d been wrong; regardless of how much the ghosts of omission want to keep them apart, he can and always has had Arthur, and from now on, he always will. As he holds Arthur securely in his arms, Merlin’s tearful yet euphoric, weighed down by bone-deep exhaustion yet giddy with excitement, vividly recalling the past yet unable to imagine anything other than the future—_their _future, together at last.

There is still that pesky destiny to fulfill, that shared dream they have yet to make fully real. There are still years and years worth of questions and secrets and time spent apart that they’re yet to catch up on. There is still a millennium’s share of pain and loneliness in Merlin’s heart that has yet to heal.

But, for once, he’s finally sure that it will—because Merlin remembers feeling this way a long, long time ago in another life, and he has the entirety of this new life by Arthur’s side to feel the same way again.

**Author's Note:**

> -[inspiration for this fic's format](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17653)  
-[fic title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zzR-PMfJDI)
> 
> this fic can also be thought of as a prequel to [rumbling canon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248957).
> 
> thank you so much for reading! please r&r, if it's not too much to ask. <3
> 
> and go talk to me on tumblr @ [perksofimmortality](https://perksofimmortality.tumblr.com/) :D


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